


exultant

by RorschachIris



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Armitage Hux is Not Nice, Attempted Rape, Attempted Suicide, Blackmail, But true love, Criminal Rey, Everyone is not nice, Evil moms - Freeform, F/M, Forced Marriage, HISTORICAL INACCURACIES ABOUND, I think?, Inspired by the opera Marnie by Nico Muhly, Just your usual opera lol, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Maz and Baz are neighbors, Mercy killing of a wounded animal, Non-Consensual Dry Humping, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Beta Read, Pathological Lying, Pathological burgling, Rey Solana, Rey has issues, Twisted love, We've got it all folks, Which is inspired by the book Marnie by Winston Graham, rey is not nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RorschachIris/pseuds/RorschachIris
Summary: Rey, a pathological liar and burglar, drifts from city to city, never getting attached, never putting down roots. An encounter with Kylo Ren precipitates the unraveling of her solitary life and tightly-wound secrets.(Loosely) 1950s AU
Relationships: Finn/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the opera _Marnie_ by Nico Muhly, which in turn was inspired by the book _Marnie_ by Winston Graham. As the tags indicate, things will get dark and a bit angsty, so hang onto your hats!
> 
> Err and on that note, Happy Valentine's Day!

In a wide, tall room crammed full of women sitting at desks arranged in rows, answering telephones and reading primly from scripts and tapping loudly on typewriters, Rhonda Salman sits at a desk of low importance. 

Her large, round glasses are pushed studiously up her nose, and her mousy, dirty blonde hair is wrapped haphazardly in a passable bun. A shabby brown jacket is draped over the back of her chair; her skirt is an untailored, shapeless mess; her in-turned feet are stuffed unceremoniously into modest, clunky pumps. She hunches slightly over her desk, and the whole of her attention is zeroed in on the papers on her desk, the ringing of her phone.

_A woman who fears what others think. A woman who doesn’t want to be noticed._

Around her, the voices of other women, high and husky, sweet and clipped, drone on and on, merging into a cloud of harmless but maddening sound.

“Plutt Family Accounting, you’ve reached actuarial services. May I ask who’s calling?”

“—attaching an invoice for our services—”

“Ooh, I like your nails!”

“—seeing my boyfriend tonight—”

“Not a single receipt!”

“Oh, no, he did sign it. He just didn’t initial every—”

“—muggy outside—”

“I’m freezing.”

“I’m freezing!”

“I’m so cold—”

Someone appears at Rhonda’s side, laying a manicured finger on a pile of papers on her desk. 

“Have you shown these figures to Mr. Plutt yet?” A voice asks. Rhonda looks up, and up, and _up_ , until she meets Gwendoline Phasma’s cold, polite blue eyes.

Rhonda stretches her lips in what she hopes is a convincing smile.

“No, I haven’t,” she says in a small voice; she points her gaze momentarily across the room, at a closed set of doors of polished walnut, gilded inlay, and glass paneling. “He’s been with a client for an hour.”

“Oh, well.” Miss Phasma leans away from Rhonda ever so slightly, examining her nails with a subtly exasperated air. “He’ll have to look at them first thing Monday.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Like an obedient house pet, Rhonda returns to her work, her head tucked down.

Presently, right as the office is closing for the day, two kaleidoscoped figures appear behind the beveled glass of the walnut doors. There’s a moment of pause as the figures talk, a slight rumble of sound as one of them laughs; and then the doors swing open, revealing Unkar Plutt, the hopelessly obese CEO of Plutt Family Accounting, and his client—Mr. Ren, a businessman in a tweed suit of cool dark gray, unlike the splashy bold synthetic suits that more “modern” men are experimenting with; a suit that probably cost more than Rhonda’s annual paycheck. He stands a head taller than Unkar, his unconventional shoulder-length mane of dark hair slicked immaculately into place, his long, hard features set into a mask of polite disinterest.

“...sent me packing, the old hussy,” Plutt exclaims, guffawing heartily. Rhonda avoids looking at the two men as she rises from her desk, preparing to leave for the day.

“Ms. Salman,” Plutt calls upon seeing her; she hides a wince behind a smile.

“Yes, sir?”

“You have the directions I asked you to pull up for Mr. Ren here?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Here,” she chirps, leaning forward slightly to snatch a wayward sheet of notepad paper from her desk. She reads off her instructions as she approaches the tall figure of Mr. Ren.

“If you take the 7:05 from New Street station and exchange at Naboo, you’ll be in Coruscant by 8:15,” she rattles off. Upon reaching Mr. Ren, she realizes just _how_ tall he is, and smiles a guarded smile up over his shoulder. 

She misses the way his eyes search her face for a fleeting moment.

“Here,” she mutters, scuttling away after shoving the sheet of paper with her crudely hand-drawn map into Mr. Ren’s hands. “Let me help you with your coat.”

“Thank you,” he intones in a deep baritone voice that makes her jump, “Miss… Salman.”

As Plutt struggles with the finicky lock of his office doors, as the remaining ladies in the room check their watches before closing up their accounts, and as someone begins switching off the lights in the massive room—probably Miss Phasma—Rhonda swipes Mr. Ren’s luxurious wool coat from the coat rack, flits nervously back to him like a skittish bird, and stands on her toes to help him into his coat, avoiding touching any part of him. 

As he turns around to face her, searching her face once again, she squirms with discomfort for a moment before easily catching sight of a missing button on his lapel. She mutters, offhandedly: “One of your buttons is missing.” 

Mr. Ren looks down at his coat with bemusement. Before he can respond, however, Mr. Plutt, having wrestled his doors into compliance, hurries over.

“Miss Salman, it isn't your business to criticize a man as distinguished as Mr. Ren,” he blusters, his shapeless face already reddening with reproach, and Rhonda darts out of the way, ducking her head. But Mr. Ren raises a huge, veined hand, a hand that has no business being attached to a man with a nine-to-five office position, and waves placatingly at Plutt.

“It's all right,” he says, his straight, full-lipped mouth quirking into what might be a smile; Rhonda glances up at him with surprise, finally looking the man in the face. His expression somehow balances cold civility and shocking gentleness.

“I'm a busy man, with no one pulling me up to scratch these days. I hadn't noticed the button.” He dips his chin ever so slightly at Rhonda, his gaze flickering with interest; his voice is like a smooth, rich coffee. “Thank you again, Miss Salman.”

_Dammit. The last thing I need is to be memorable._

“My pleasure,” Rhonda mumbles, ducking her head again before turning her back on Mr. Ren and pretending to fuss over her unglamorous coat and her unfashionable bag, hoping to lose his interest; she breathes what she hopes is an unnoticed breath of relief as she listens to his and Plutt’s fading voices, their retreating footsteps.

Jessika from two desks over sidles up next to Rhonda with a playful smile.

“Lucky you, getting to help Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome into his coat,” she teases, poking lightly at Rhonda’s sleeve.

“Handsome indeed,” Kaydel exclaims, pretending to swoon and stumble on her way over. “Did you see those shoulders? And those _buns_!”

“If he doesn't have anyone pulling him up to scratch, I'll _pull_ him any time he'd like,” Zorii simpers suggestively, winking from a few rows back; the ladies burst into titters at their own naughty jokes.

“Please,” Rhonda huffs, hurriedly buttoning up her coat. “He could do much better than any of us, and he knows it.”

“Well, boo to you too, Miss Killjoy,” Jessika pouts. “No wonder you never have any young men to speak of.”

“Speaking of which, you all should probably be getting back to your boyfriends,” Rhonda remarks with mock innocence, before picking up her bag and hurrying to the door, almost colliding with Plutt on his way back in.

“Miss Salman!” He exclaims as she brushes past him; she wonders if she can pretend not to hear him, and takes a few more hurried steps out the door.

“Miss Salman,” he says again, and she grinds to a halt, nearly seething. She's just about used up all of her good will and dissembling ability for the day, and has to consciously paste a look of vapid obedience onto her face before turning to face her employer.

“Yes, sir?” She manages between her teeth.

“I was just wondering,” he says slowly as he approaches her, “if you'd like a ride home.”

_My God._ She glances pointedly at the wedding band on his pudgy hand before smiling.

“I'm quite all right with walking, sir, thank you,” she says.

His politely hopeful expression sours, and is replaced by a sneer.

“It's just a lift home. Don't flatter yourself,” he all but spits before turning up his nose and walking away from her.

_Man-child._ Rhonda turns and takes a few more steps before she feels the remaining shreds of self-control fall away.

_The way he came sliming up to me… I felt the smearing of his hand. I felt_ defiled. 

She sucks in a shaky breath and draws herself to her full height, relieved to finally straighten her posture. She hadn't come into work this morning with the intention of submitting her notice of resignation, but this wouldn't be the first time it's happened.

_Good-bye, Miss Rhonda Salman._

She removes her glasses and shoves them into her bag, then slips into a broom closet at the end of the long hallway, listening with breathless intention as the chatter of men and women looking forward to happy hour slowly fade away. A moment later, she hears Miss Phasma’s metal-tipped heels descend regally down the hallway, and imagines the statuesque blonde’s runway model step; trailing close behind Phasma’s footsteps is Plutt’s ponderous tread, shuffling unevenly along the fake marble flooring. Rhonda counts the minutes as silence settles over the building, and when she finally steps out of the broom closet, she is no longer Rhonda Salman.

_Two doors to get past, one locked drawer. And then the safe._

Rey Solana slips her hands into her winter gloves and removes a pin from her bun as she steps lightly back towards the room where she works. After picking the lock on the door with practiced ease, she makes her way to Plutt’s office doors, the glass inlay glinting dully in the weak evening sunlight slanting through the ratty windows. She picks that lock with equal ease—maybe if Plutt stopped bribing the federal security auditors, he'd realize just how easy his locks are to bypass—and steps silently into the office of the CEO. 

Ignoring the mass of (probably confidential) papers on the desk and being careful not to disrupt the dust collecting on his books and cheap furnishings, Rey steals her way to the top right drawer of his desk—the only one with a lock—and, with a steel ruler lying crooked over a notebook, forces the drawer open. She knows where the key is, under the false bottom of the drawer; she's forced this drawer open and stared at the key many times. With the key in hand, she turns to the lockbox languishing on the bottom level of Plutt’s wooden shelf.

“Left to yourself for so long,” she tuts under her breath as she slips the key into the lock of the safe and turns. “Well, let's fix that.”

The door of the safe swings open, and she can’t help but grin at the sight of the cash sitting inside. She shovels up the cash with abandon—judging from the number of bills, it must be around $2,000—and stuffs the bills into her purse. 

_This is the kill that the hunter brings home._

She closes the safe door, locks it, replaces the key and false bottom, and leaves the office, even using her hairpin to re-lock the doors—a perfect reversal of her previous actions, except for the crime itself. 

At the back entrance of the building, she lingers for a long moment, peering out into the deserted street and into as many windows as she can, listening patiently. When she’s certain that the street is sufficiently quiet, she steps out with a confident stride and turns her feet toward the train station a few blocks away, her mind whirring. Now that she’s decided to leave Plutt Family Accounting, she’ll need a place to hide away for a bit and formulate a plan. She certainly can’t return to her current apartment; they’ll figure out in the morning that she’s the thief, and she’ll need to be long gone. 

She can’t think of a better time to visit her dear mother.

Trying to keep the giddy grin of post-heist high off of her face, she focuses on planning out the next few steps. She’ll need a new city, a new look, a new name—all of which she hasn’t used before. 

She runs through her mental list of places she’s been. She’s already been to most cities in the slummier regions—Dantooine and Tatooine, Geonosis and Jakku, Eadu and Hoth. She figures if she hits the less significant areas first before moving onto bigger, better fish, she’ll have a better chance at staying flexible and unrecognizable for longer. Is she ready for a nicer place yet? Hmm—she isn’t sure. She bites her lip thoughtfully as she flips through city names. No...she’s been to most cities in these regions. Probably best to move up a tier and start trying her luck in slightly nicer areas.

What would count as a slightly nicer area? More leisure, more comforts, more local businesses, she thinks. But nothing too urban, too comfortable, too advanced. Cerea? Coyerti? Takodana, maybe? 

Hmm. Takodana, with its lush greenery, generous lakes, and thriving pockets of suburban, small-business life? And its proximity to richer regions like Coruscant and Chandrila, where one might skip off to for an impromptu weekend getaway? It could work. She’d have to stay away from the tourism industry, to avoid running into any previous employers who might recognize her, but several of Takodana’s towns and smaller cities—Nymeve, for instance—do not rely heavily on tourism. 

_Nymeve it is._ And then, there’s the matter of figuring out a look. Rey slips into the train station, tapping quickly across the grimy vinyl flooring as she pulls a few coins out of her bag, and hands the change to the ticketmaster.

“One-way to Dagobah, please.”

“Yes’m,” the bedraggled-looking young man mutters, sliding her ticket across the counter towards her; she snaps it up and hurries to the platform.

_A look._ Hmm. Fiery redhead? Too noticeable. Brunette? Eh. She could take a risk and remain a dirty blonde; something about courting the possibility of being recognized makes her shiver with excitement. She reigns herself in with difficulty. No need to go taking unnecessary risks; otherwise, what would the whole point of this be?

Black hair? No; it’s a strong look on her, and she wants to save that for a special occasion.

Blonde? Platinum, like Phasma. But softer, more feminine. She curls a finger subconsciously in her hair as she thinks. It’s long enough now to be curled; perhaps she can finally try one of those sultry magazine looks.

Hmm. A bit risky. But she’d like that. 

She smiles to herself as the rickety train clatters along.

\---

Her mother’s door is unlocked, despite the neighborhood being a rather unsavory one. She pushes the hollow wood-veneer door open with the lightest of shoves and takes a hesitant step inside. The dim, untidy, slightly damp interior is expected, but the young boy sitting at the plain dining table of unpolished wood is not.

The child turns in its seat and stares up at the newcomer with suspicious eyes. Inexplicably, Rey’s heart skips a beat, and a knot of dread forms in her throat.

“Are you Rey?” He finally asks.

“Yes,” she says, attempting to smile. “Do you know where Maz is?”

“You mean your mother?” The child counters with surprising venom.

“Um,” she falters, frowning. “Yes, my mother.”

“Auntie Maz says you never come back to visit her. She says you’ve abandoned her.” The child jumps out of his chair suddenly and runs for the door, nearly bowling Rey over.

“Who are you?” She demands, stepping out into the hallway and watching as he beats a hasty retreat. “ _Who are you?_ ”

“Rey?”

Rey whips around and sees her mother, wheeling slowly down the hallway in her wheelchair, a vague displeasure in every wrinkle and facet of her face.

“Mother,” Rey says, and the relief that seizes her surprises her. She walks quickly to the bent, shriveled little old lady and wheels her the rest of the way into the apartment. Maz is aloofly silent until Rey closes the front door behind them.

“There was a child here,” Rey says hesitantly as she sits down at the dining table. “Do you know who it might have been?”

“Ah,” Maz says, her distant expression melting into a smile of fondness. “Temiri. He loves me, the dear child. He’s become very attached.”

“Does he live in this apartment building?”

“Yes, he lives somewhere in this dump,” Maz says, the hint of a sneer tugging at her voice. “It’s so damp here, and cold all the time, too. It’s terrible on my joints. And you never come home to see me, like a good daughter should. But Temiri visits me every day, and helps me forget for a little bit that my life is hell.”

“You know that I can’t come home every night, mother,” Rey says in a placating tone. “I work several towns over, and it’s simply too long a trip to make every day. You know that.”

“You could try a little harder,” Maz snaps. “What do you do in the evenings, anyway? I’ll bet you’re up to no good. You were always a problem child.”

“I work long hours, mother, there’s nothing to be done for it. But here,” Rey says, perking up as she remembers the cash in her purse. “I made a sound investment recently. I came today to bring you my winnings.”

“Your winnings?” Maz says, her tone suspicious but her eyes glinting with curiosity, as Rey pulls a wad of cash out of her purse.

“Yes. I had one of my coworkers invest a little of my earnings, and he chose a good stock. Look at how much this is! You could move to a nicer place, mother. Maybe a little place by the sea.” Rey lays the cash on the table before Maz and watches Maz’s face.

Maz makes a dismissive sound, turning her nose away from the cash; Rey’s heart falls.

“You’re lying,” Maz says bluntly. “You got the money immorally, didn’t you?”

“No!” Rey sputters. “I swear, I got this from investments, and I did it without cheating.”

“I’m warning you, I will disown you if this money wasn’t earned honestly.”

“I swear it wasn’t!”

“I always have to worry about you,” Maz complains. “I always have to _make sure_. You must guard your soul, Rey. Dress modestly, never forget your manners—and never go blonde again, do you hear me, Rey? That was an unacceptable look.”

“What’s wrong with being blonde?”

“You looked like a slut,” Maz spits.

“Mother,” Rey pleads, “There’s nothing wrong with being blonde! And I swear I’ve been guarding my soul, like you always say. I’ve been working hard, dressing modestly, earning my keep… Why don’t you ever trust me?”

Maz turns a flinty-eyed stare at Rey, and Rey cowers back.

“You know why,” Maz hisses, her voice full of accusation, and she jabs a finger at Rey over the small pile of cash. “You know what you _did_.” 

“Why do you always torment me with that?” Rey begs, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t even remember what I did. I was a child!”

“You were always a bad child,” Maz insists, her voice rising, “and now you’re a bad young woman. Bad through and through.”

“What’s going on?” Someone bangs on the door, before realizing that it isn’t locked and bursting in. Rey stumbles to her feet, her tear-blurred eyes refusing to cooperate; she wipes furiously at her eyes.

“Bazine?” She mutters tearfully upon recognizing her mother’s neighbor.

“Rey,” Bazine says with relief; she props a hand on the small of her own back, sighing. Kind, quiet Bazine has always been tall and slender, but life in the neighborhood is wearing visibly on her; her graying hair is wrapped back in a bandana, the graceful lines of her body are becoming saggy, and the lines around her full lips and lovely eyes are more pronounced than they were when Rey last visited.

“I’m glad it’s you, dear,” Bazine continues. “I thought your mother was having a row with Mrs. Unduli again.”

“Luminara’s an old bitch,” Maz says lightly, sniffing dismissively and turning away. “What do you want, Bazine?”

“Just checking in on you, Maz. God knows you need it. But Rey, dear, I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been?”

“She didn’t come here to chat with _you_ ,” Maz snaps with sudden venom.

“I’m all right, Bazine,” Rey says, pulling a smile on with a concerted effort. “I came to visit mother, and to give her some money.”

“Well, that sure is nice!” Bazine exclaims, smiling.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with dirty money,” Maz snaps, the tension in her voice rising. “ _You_ know what she’s capable of, Bazine. _You_ know what happened.”

At this, Bazine looks away, her expression tightening; Rey feels the tears welling back up.

“I can’t remember,” Rey insists, her voice sounding pitifully childish in her own ears. “Please, I can’t even remember what I did.”

Bazine, with a worried pinch to her brow, looks pointedly at Maz and opens her mouth to speak.

“You promised,” Maz says, cutting her off, “that you wouldn’t talk to her about what happened. Don’t start now.”

Bazine closes her mouth reluctantly and looks away. There’s a long stretch of awkward silence.

“Well,” Rey says, standing slowly, “I suppose I’ll be going now. It was nice to see you, mother, Bazine.” She gives Maz a hopeful look, a look that Maz doesn’t deign to return. With a heavy heart, Rey steps quietly out of the apartment, nodding to Bazine on her way out, and shuts the door gently behind her.

“Honestly,” Bazine says quietly, once Rey is outside, “I don’t understand why she keeps coming back and seeing you and putting up with your cruelty and spitefulness. She doesn’t deserve it.”

Maz’s beady-eyed glare doesn’t leave Bazine until the neighbor finally retreats from the apartment. 

\---

_All night long, the guilty hear malevolent voices._

It’s something that Maz said to Rey, a long time ago. Rey can no longer remember whether it was said in earnest or merely to scare her, but it’s stuck with her nonetheless. All night long, the guilty hear malevolent voices.

Rey leans her forehead against the cool metal interior of the train, watching through the rain-splattered window as the lights of passing cities, neighborhoods, and cars pass by. She closes her eyes, and thinks, for a moment, that she’s able to hear the malevolent voices, speaking dark assurances into her ear, promising death and punishment. 

She doesn’t try to cover her ears; she knows that it would be pointless. She tries to distract herself with other thoughts. What should her new name be, now that she’s moving to Takodana and starting over? RS. RS. Rhonda Salman. And now...what? 

_All night long, the guilty hear malevolent voices._


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Renée Sullivan, bearing two middling-sized suitcases and a head of platinum-blonde, sharply-coiffed hair, steps into her modest new apartment in Nymeve, Takodana. 

Leaving her suitcases by the door and setting her keys on a small coffee table that the previous owner had left behind, she takes a turn around the room, examining the featureless walls, the characterless windows, the cracks in the floorboards. It’s not perfect, but it will do. With a sigh, she removes her gloves and turns to the task of unpacking her bags.

\---

Another few days later, Renée Sullivan, dressed immaculately in an understated jade-green dress under a cream wool coat and polished brown leather pumps, hair and makeup done with a 5x magnifying mirror, steps primly into the most established business in the small city of Nymeve. The assistant at the front desk of the administrative wing, a petite Asian woman in a neatly-pressed cobalt dress, rises as Renée enters; her name plate reads Rose Tico.

“May I help you?” Miss Tico asks politely, taking in the stranger’s pristine appearance with a slightly taken-aback expression.

“Yes,” Miss Sullivan murmurs, her mascara-brushed lashes fluttering demurely. “I’m here for an interview. I’m scheduled for the 2:45 slot, for the wages post in Human Resources?”

“Ah.” Miss Tico glances down at a thick appointment book lying open on her desk. “Miss...Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way, miss.” The assistant turns to lead Miss Sullivan down a hallway and into an office. 

Renée glances quickly about the room—much more nicely upholstered than Plutt’s office, with spotless leather furnishings, a polished wooden desk, shelves loaded full with neat lines of books, and a thick rug underfoot—and, as she lowers herself into the seat across from the desk, she catches sight of the name plate propped neatly on the wooden surface—

—and nearly jumps back up.

“Kylo Ren,” she hears herself say. It sounds familiar. 

Familiar isn’t good.

“Yes, Miss Sullivan,” Miss Tico says, nodding with a smile. “Mr. Ren will be interviewing you. He’s the President of Organa Printing Services, and oversees Human Resources operations. He must be running late…”

“I—” Rey begins, almost rising from the chair; a moment of panic shoots through her as she tries to remember who Mr. Ren is. It comes to her like a shock of lightning—Plutt’s tall, dark, and handsome client. She’d helped him with his overcoat. The night she’d stolen from Plutt and disappeared…

_Damn._ Mr. Ren will recognize her for sure.

“I can’t stay,” Rey says in a rush. “I have another appointment—”

“Oh,” Miss Tico says, frowning. “Um… That’s a real shame, Miss Sullivan. I can reschedule—”

“Miss Tico?”

A baritone voice sounds all of a sudden from around the frame of the door. Rey, frozen halfway between standing and sitting, watches with increasing panic as a shadow draws nearer, and as the hulking figure of Kylo Ren appears in the doorway. 

He’s even taller than she remembered, even broader in the shoulders and longer in the legs. His eyes are more intense, his nose and brow longer and straighter, his mouth and hair more strikingly soft. Everything about him is _more_ than she remembered. Miss Tico steps back politely, still confused, looking between the two; Rey goggles at Mr. Ren; and Mr. Ren glances detachedly in Rey’s direction.

“My 2:45?”

“Yes, sir,” Miss Tico responds politely, gathering herself. “An interview for the wages post.”

“Yes.” Mr. Ren dips his chin slightly. “Thank you for showing her in.”

“Welcome, sir.” Miss Tico bobs her head, relieved at being dismissed, and scuttles out of the room, swinging the door closed behind her.

_Pull yourself together._ Miss Sullivan straightens to her full height, all demure smile and lashes and lipstick, and smiles a guarded smile at Mr. Ren, watching his face with what she hopes is an unnoticeable anxiety. To her utter relief, Mr. Ren only gives her the most cursory of look-overs as he crosses the room and offers her his hand; his eyes rest for a long moment on her face as they shake, but there is no flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“My name is Kylo Ren. I’m the President of Organa Printing Services.”

“I’m Renée Sullivan, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, have a seat,” he rumbles, gesturing with a boat-paddle hand to the chair she’d risen from; she sits down with a silent breath of relief, and watches as he folds himself into his own chair with a strange sort of coiled grace.

He scrutinizes her for a moment, then. “Have we met before?” He asks, and the zeroing in of his gaze on her is exhilarating and terrifying.

“Oh no,” Miss Sullivan replies without missing a beat, flashing a dazzling smile of amusement as she folds her hands together elegantly. “I’ve just arrived in Takodana.”

“I see. What brought you here?”

“Well...my husband died six months ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I was newly alone, and...I wanted to make a new start in life. But,” Miss Sullivan says, fighting back dainty tears with a concerted effort and grinning again at Mr. Ren, apparently determined to remain professional, “tell me about your company.”

“Organa Printing Services is a family firm,” Mr. Ren says, watching as Miss Sullivan swallows back her tears. “My father founded it. After he passed, my mother became the CEO.”

“Your mother?” She repeats, eyes going wide. “That’s quite a feat for a woman in this day and age.”

“She’s not your average woman,” he chuckles; she watches with fascination as a dimple unexpectedly appears in his right cheek. “I’m the President of the company, but she intervenes from time to time. She’s always had a mind for business, perhaps more so than my father ever did.”

“You don’t find it…”

“What?”

“...Intrusive?”

“That my mother runs the company?” He chuckles again; Miss Sullivan, to her consternation, finds that she can’t quite read what that chuckle means. “No. I’ve grown used to it, and there’s no doubt that she’s good at what she does.”

“My hiring prospects notwithstanding, I find that to be very admirable.”

“The notion of women in positions of leadership is becoming the norm, and rightfully so,” Mr. Ren responds; despite his words, his tone is slightly cold. “I’m not the type of President to disqualify someone based on their gender.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

A cluster of voices suddenly bursts into full volume outside Mr. Ren’s door; as Miss Sullivan turns, the door flies open, and a red-headed man, hollow-cheeked and rod-thin, steps in, surveying the office as though it’s his.

“That’s Armitage Hux,” Mr. Ren says, this time with a subtle growl of exasperation in his voice. “He’s my...Vice President.”

“Did I hear my name being taken in vain?” Mr. Hux demands as he steps in; behind him, Miss Tico wrings her hands, evidently having tried and failed to stop him from barging in.

Mr. Ren rises from his chair and gestures with a reluctant air. “This is Renée Sullivan. She’s applied for the wages post.”

Miss Sullivan makes to rise from her seat, but Mr. Hux is at her side in two strides, leaning into her personal space and reaching for her hand.

“Some day, some time,” he says, winking at her as he pumps her hand, “someone’s going to tell me what’s going on around here.”

He turns abruptly and brandishes a notebook under Mr. Ren’s nose.

“I’ve just discovered that the price of our waterproof notebook is less than it costs to print.” He slaps the notebook down on Mr. Ren’s desk, blowing several papers akilter with his brash motion.

Mr. Ren picks the notebook up slowly. “Miss Sullivan,” he says, “Would you leave Mr. Hux and me to talk this over?”

“Yes, of course,” She says, rising from her seat and stepping with subconscious hurry towards the door. Mr. Hux slides over to Mr. Ren’s chair and settles in it, propping his loafered feet on the desk. But Mr. Ren hardly seems to notice, and advances on Miss Sullivan; she freezes.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Sullivan,” he says, extending a hand as he stops before her. She tilts her head back to look up at him for a moment, and flashes another million-watt smile; she takes his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” she replies smoothly. “Pleasure was all mine.”

He releases her hand after a moment that almost becomes too long, and steps away. She notices his stance; wide, loose, yet grounded. Immovable. She probably couldn’t push past him if she threw herself at him, wool coat and all.

“You can start next Monday,” he says abruptly.

“I—” She almost chokes. “I’m hired?”

“I found no issue with your résumé,” he elaborates, “and my conversation with you has convinced me that you are qualified for the job. I see no reason to dally.”

“I…” Her mouth works for a quick moment, before she collects herself—this new skin still needs getting used to—and inclines her head.

“Thank you, sir,” she says. “I’ll see you next week.”

He doesn’t answer her, watching her with that enigmatic, intense scrutiny that makes her want to run. She turns and, with measured, fluid steps, leaves his office.

\---

Her heart is thumping wildly even as she returns to her new apartment, throws down her keys, kicks off her pumps, and begins stripping off the day’s costume. She needs to get ahold of herself if she’s going to survive this. 

She tells herself that there’s nothing to worry about. Mr. Ren didn’t recognize her; at least, he didn’t outright. And both her manner and her appearance are so different from those of Miss Salman that for him to draw any parallel between the two women is near impossible.

_But not entirely impossible._

Right. So no more slip-ups. No more panic. Renée Sullivan doesn’t cower; she stands tall. Renée Sullivan doesn’t stutter; her sentences are flawless. Renée Sullivan doesn’t stumble along, hoping for no one to notice her; she shines like a candle in the darkness.

Rey sighs as the dress comes off; she steps into her bathroom to remove her makeup. For a moment, as she stands over the sink and slathers her face with makeup remover, she wonders if perhaps she should drop Renée Sullivan and disappear again; but to have moved all the way to Takodana and to leave with nothing to show for it seems like a shame. And she hasn’t been recognized, not yet. She still has a chance.

Of course, it doesn’t help that Mr. Ren is unlike any of her previous employers. It isn’t just that he’s startlingly handsome; he has a shrewdness to him that men seem to lack these days; she gets the sense that there are layers to him, and that the man she met outside Plutt’s office, and again today, was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. 

She rinses off the makeup remover and examines her true face in the mirror. The blonde hair makes her skin look a bit sallow, she realizes; she’ll need to pay more attention to enlivening her complexion, come Monday morning.

Mr. Ren is a mystery, no doubt about it. And a mysterious man doesn’t bode well for her. 

But, she thinks, grinning to herself in the mirror, wouldn’t a victory over this sort of man taste all the more sweet? Wouldn’t it feel deliciously, sinfully exhilarating to disappear from Takodana, having stolen every scrap of liquid cash from this tall, dark, handsome, impervious, unshakeable, mysterious man?

_Yes_ , something inside her whispers eagerly, guiltily, itching to once again push the boundaries of the forgivable. 

_Yes, it would._

\---

Another office, another cloud of maddening voices.

“No order is too small—”

“—your post, Miss Tico—”

“Don’t worry, the client will pay the overage.”

“—fits conveniently in a jacket pocket—”

“Just one hundred?—”

“— _two_ hundred—”

“Silver wedding, satin finish, and two hundred invitations, I ask you—”

“—well, if they want it in full color—”

Someone appears next to Miss Sullivan and presses an urgent hand on top of the sheaf of papers at her elbow. She looks up into Miss Tico’s pinched face.

“Watch out,” Miss Tico mutters. “ _Casanova’s_ on the prowl.”

Miss Sullivan slides her gaze to the door and watches as Mr. Hux walks in—Mr. Hux, the only man in the world who could probably make waltzing feel slimy.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling conspiratorially up at Miss Tico, who grins back at her before moving to intercept. Mr. Hux, initially meandering towards Miss Sullivan’s desk, comes unexpectedly face-to-face with the petite, but formidable, assistant.

“And how can we help you, Mr. Hux?” Miss Tico asks, brandishing a threateningly innocent smile. 

“I’m just dropping by to check on how Miss Sullivan is settling in,” Mr. Hux says, holding his hands up in a mock gesture of ingenue.

“She’s been here for six weeks,” Miss Tico says, her smile widening. “If she hasn’t settled in by now, she never will. Was there anything else you wanted?”

“I thought you were Kylo’s assistant, not Miss Sullivan’s,” Mr. Hux sneers.

“Well,” Miss Tico shrugs, grinning cheekily, “I don’t hear her objecting.”

“Speaking of objections,” Mr. Hux says, perking up just as Miss Tico is about to brush by him, “a new batch of ads came in for the company, and I want you ladies’ opinions on them. Would you care to take a look?”

Miss Sullivan glances up from her stacks of papers; Miss Tico glances back at her. They look then at Mr. Hux with mild surprise. Their opinions on ads—or women’s opinions on anything, really—are rarely solicited, and it’s strange for Mr. Hux, of all people, to break that norm.

“Why not?” Miss Tico finally says, shrugging. Miss Sullivan, silently following suit, sets down her pen.

Mr. Hux’s grin is ambiguous at best as he strides over to his assistant’s desk, rummages around underneath it, pulls out a couple sheets of cardboard, and makes his way back to Miss Sullivan’s desk, where Miss Tico has retreated.

“So?” Mr. Hux says as he turns the first sheet of cardboard around. “What do you think?”

Miss Sullivan’s nose wrinkles slightly. The ad is a proof for a billboard of sorts, the kind often seen on the sides of buildings and highways. The “product” being sold is Nymeve Resorts, a remote, expensive getaway built on the tame beaches of Nymeve Lake, but the central figure on the ad is a voluptuous blonde woman lying elegantly on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, her dainty feet encased in pretty white sandals, her generous breasts just barely contained by a frilly green swimsuit; her seemingly-innocent gaze is askance, as though she’s coyly ignoring the approach of the viewer.

“It’s a bit...suggestive,” Miss Sullivan finally says.

“A bit?” Miss Tico mutters, frowning disdainfully. Mr. Hux seems uncowed by their disapproval; rather, his anticipatory smile widens.

“I suppose you think the same about this one, then,” he says, flipping to another sheet; same “product,” but with a brunette woman curled up on a beach chair, wearing a skimpy scarlet swimsuit.

“You suppose correctly,” Miss Tico says, turning away.

“Kylo reacted the same way, you know,” Mr. Hux says, glancing at the third ad before handing them dismissively to a random passing employee; Miss Sullivan’s attention stirs at the mention of her employer. 

“But I think a touch of sex is just what Nymeve needs,” Hux continues, and Miss Sullivan hopes to God that his hips didn’t just gyrate a little. But then he rounds on her, and she is forced to go on full alert.

“Speaking of which,” he says, now speaking directly to her, “would a poker game some evening be of interest?”

“I’ll look at my schedule, Mr. Hux,” she replies politely, and makes a show of running her finger down a page of records and reaching for her rotary phone. But he leans over and slaps his finger on the switch hook before she can even dial the first number; she looks up at him, too surprised to be offended at his brashness. He leans toward her, looming over her almost, and she instinctively shrinks back.

“Let me know as soon as you can,” he says, his voice a few pitches lower than it was a moment before. He releases her phone and swaggers away, running a hand lightly over his slicked-back hair as he goes.

Miss Tico hurries back to her desk. “Wear your tin panties,” she mutters.

“I wouldn't be alone with him in a million years,” Miss Sullivan deadpans, snatching up her pen and making marks on her papers with a quiet fury.

“Look sharp,” Miss Tico says, straightening suddenly. “Here comes Mr. Ren.”

Miss Sullivan doesn’t turn to look in the direction of his approach, but, as Miss Tico flits back to her desk, black leather loafers tripping soundlessly over the hardwood floor—maybe _that’s_ why she wears those horrid things—she remains bent over her papers, ostensibly focused on her work. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she listens to the sound of pure, polished leather tapping unhurriedly from the doorway in her direction.

“Miss Sullivan,” he says, his voice like a distant thunderstorm, and she has to muster every ounce of willpower to keep from shivering.

“I am most cruelly disappointed,” he continues.

_What?_ Rey stills, swallowing. Has he finally figured out—?

“You haven’t put your name down for the annual dance and dinner,” he says. She turns to look up at him, not understanding his words for a split second; she finds him standing a mere foot or two from the back of her chair, holding a dark brown portfolio loosely under one arm, smiling easily down at her. 

Over the past few weeks, his smiles have grown steadily warmer, losing their air of mystery and calculating opaqueness; if he isn’t entirely friendly with her, he’s at least a bit more relaxed. More comfortable. And, if she's honest with herself, more...attentive.

She can’t decide if it’s a good thing, so she maintains her mask of demure deference for now.

“Do I have to?” She asks, with just a flair of playfulness, turning back to her papers.

“Not at all,” he replies, rounding her desk and stopping next to her shoddy table lamp. “But I was looking forward to a turn around the dance floor with you.”

She ducks her chin, trying to hide her fluster. “I…”

The turmoil of emotions that rises in her chest is expected, but unpleasant nonetheless. The past six weeks has made it clear to her that something about her employer draws her, but she lacks the clarity to put her finger on what it is. Perhaps it's his quiet, intense manner, the way he tends to avoid niceties and small talk. Perhaps it's the sheer breadth of him, the way he fills up doorways, the unexpected softness of his mouth. 

Or perhaps it's the odd, baseless but nagging suspicion that of all the people in Takodana—maybe even this world—he's the only one who would understand her. If anyone could sink their fingers into her and separate out her strands of logic and reasoning, if anyone could look into the abyssal darkness of her soul and understand her, it would be him.

_Baseless and ridiculous._ She smiles regretfully up at her employer.

“I've decided not to go,” she explains. “It's just that...my husband passed away so recently.”

“I understand,” Mr. Ren says. “Let Miss Tico know if you change your mind; she'll find a way to accommodate you.”

“I will, thank you.”

“Speaking of Miss Tico…how much do you know about roses?”

“Hmm?” Miss Sullivan glances up at him with genuine confusion. “Not much; where I grew up, there weren't any roses. Why do you ask, sir?”

“I have two tickets to the rose exhibition at the convention center downtown.”

“Oh?” Is he going to ask her to the rose exhibition? She’s mildly annoyed that he would try to ask her to attend another function despite her rebuff, but a small part of her perks up with—

“I was going to go with my mother, but a business appointment came up that will require both of our presences. Would you like to take them off my hands?”

_Oh._

“If no one else will take them,” she says, smiling. “It would be nice to see some roses.”

“Good,” he says, and a slip of tension seems to escape his shoulders. “Drop by my office whenever you’d like to pick them up.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

“And—excellent job on these reports, by the way,” he says, tapping the portfolio under his arm as he retreats.

“Thank you,” she repeats, ducking her chin modestly, and watches from the corner of her eye as he winds deftly around the rows of desks and disappears into his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything's going swell! No reason to worry at all!

**Author's Note:**

> * does a shameless plug dance *
> 
>   * [pressed down, shaken together, running over](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797028/chapters/54479338) \- modern day AU where Rey and Kylo work at the same company - introspective, slightly dramatic, focus on character development (COMPLETE)
>   * [furball](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119837/chapters/55319881) \- modern day, casual magic AU where Kylo has a run-in with a small brown cat and things spiral from there - lighthearted, fluffy, short (COMPLETE)
>   * [the black swan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474413/chapters/56279338) \- modern day, sci-fi AU based on the movie _Pacific Rim_ \- dark, plot-heavy, equal parts action and introspection/relational development (COMPLETE)
>   * [borrowed sunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686939/chapters/65093515) \- vaguely historical fantasy/mythological AU based on the Chinese myth _The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl_ \- fluffy and romantic, a little awkward, sometimes a little dark. Beware: science is thrown to the wind! (COMPLETE)
>   * [when i look at you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169441/chapters/66356758) \- Harry Potter AU where Rey and Ben meet during their school years, and then again a few years later - dark and angsty (COMPLETE)
>   * [exultant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406645/chapters/72242856) \- 1950s AU with a chronically lying, burgling Rey whose employment by Kylo Ren proves to be life-changing - dark, psychological, suspenseful
> 



End file.
